


a fractured house (redux)

by shineyma



Series: redux [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e06 A Fractured House, F/M, Gen, Ward isn't Hydra, episode rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant’s sacrificed a lot for SHIELD over the years. But this time, Coulson might have finally asked for more than he’s willing to give.</p><p>(or, an examination of how “A Fractured House” might have happened if the team couldn’t solve the problem of Senator Ward by handing over his brother.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fractured house (redux)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I am still behind on answering comments. I will do so ASAP, I promise.
> 
> Second, this requires a little explanation, because it's a sort of excerpt from a larger 'verse that I haven't written yet. So **please read** the following:
> 
> Here’s what you need to know for the purposes of this fic: Grant was never in juvie. He did his time in military school, graduated with honors, and was recruited to SHIELD right out of it. As such, he was never HYDRA. Garrett was his SO, but this Grant is a little more stable, so Garrett never attempted to recruit him, knowing it would be a waste of time. They worked together for a few years (during which time Grant met and started dating Jemma), then Grant was transferred to a strike team, the other members of which were Trip and Bobbi.
> 
> They were very effective, despite high levels of mayhem and hijinks. Jemma still joined Coulson’s team, but Grant didn’t—Garrett had a different second, in this verse, named Marcus Wright, and that’s who he sent to join the team and gain intel on Coulson’s resurrection. Some things changed (which will hopefully be explored in a larger fic, someday), but a lot stayed the same, just with Wright in Grant’s place. So, for instance, Jemma and Fitz still got dropped from the Bus.
> 
> I think that’s all the background information you need to understand this fic, but if you have any questions, feel free to ask! 
> 
> One more thing: I started this _before_ this week's episode aired. I've incorporated a few things from it (such as Christian's wife's name), but it's not really compliant with it. Just fyi.
> 
> That's it, I think. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

When Grant gets called to Coulson’s office a few hours after the attack on the United Nations, he’s expecting to be sent on assignment. Bobbi’s already out, accompanied by May and Hunter (which should be interesting), and Trip’s scanning government channels, trying to determine just how bad an effect the attack has had on SHIELD’s reputation in the international community. Which has left Grant cooling his heels for the past few hours, and he doesn’t do well with nothing to do.

He’s expecting to be put to work. What he’s not expecting is the apologetic grimace Coulson gives him before bringing up the news.

“SHIELD is a terrorist organization,” declares an unfortunately familiar voice.

Grant watches, resigned, as his older brother rants about the evils of SHIELD and the necessity of cracking down on them. It’s just what he’d expect from Christian, really: midterms are coming up, and he needs a strong, memorable stance to run on. As far as Christian’s concerned, this must be beyond fortuitous—a dream come true.

For Grant, it’s more of a nightmare.

Christian wants to build a multi-national police force that will target SHIELD. To say that would be bad for them would be to put it very, very mildly. They can’t allow Christian to propose this legislation, and they’ve only got twenty-four hours to stop it.

Grant has a feeling he knows what his assignment is going to be, and he’s really not happy about it.

“Every military organization on the planet will have a license to kick our operatives’ doors down and shoot them on the spot,” Coulson says of the proposal. “I can’t let that happen.”

Grant takes a deep breath and boxes up his emotions. He takes all of the pain and hate and fear he feels towards Christian and puts it away. It’s the only way to function.

“You want me to speak to him, sir?” he asks.

“Do you think it’ll do any good?” Coulson asks.

It’s tempting to just say no. He knows Coulson would take his word for it, and the whole idea would be dropped. They’d find some other way to deal with Christian’s proposed legislation—some way that didn’t involve Grant facing him. It’s tempting…but it would be wrong. That’s the coward’s way out, and he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward.

So he gives it serious thought. He hasn’t spoken to Christian in years. The last time was when Thomas was in a car accident six years ago, and they happened to visit him at the same time. It was…awkward, in several ways.

One of those ways was Christian’s determined friendliness. As far as Grant could tell, he wanted to put everything behind them and pretend that their childhood was nothing but idyllic.

Senators with abusive childhoods who used to beat on their younger brothers don’t do well in polls. Christian wants to fake being a perfect family because it’s better for his reputation. He made overtures—subtle ones—at the hospital that day, but Grant blew him off.

“It might,” he admits.

It depends on how badly Christian wants to project that happy family façade. Grant knows that there have been questions about his disappearance. He hasn’t been seen at a state function since he got sent off to military school, and his absence is noted on every single campaign trail and in every photo op. Christian, their mother, and their father all get the occasional question about him—about what happened to him.

The word _estranged_ doesn’t play well in polls, either.

The question is, would bringing Grant back into the fold be enough to outweigh spear-heading legislation against SHIELD? There’s really only one way to find out.

“It might,” he repeats. “It’s worth a shot, at least.”

Coulson nods. “Then, yeah. I’m gonna need you to pay your brother a visit.”

“Understood,” Grant says, because what else is there? He casts another glance at the screen, at the image of his brother frozen mid-rant, and sighs. “I’ll take a car, head for DC.”

Flight would be faster, of course, but Bobbi and May took the Quinjet and the Bus is too big to land discreetly in DC, even _with_ cloaking.

“Grant,” Coulson says, and he turns back, surprised. Coulson has literally _never_ used his first name before. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if we had _any_ other choice.”

“Of course, sir,” he agrees. Coulson’s read his file; he has some idea—not much of one, but some—of how Grant suffered at his family’s hands.

Coulson doesn’t want to send Grant to see Christian; that much is clear from the look on his face. Unfortunately, they really don’t have a choice. They’re desperate. They need to stop Christian from proposing this legislation, and Grant’s their best shot at doing that.

“One more thing,” Coulson says. “Take your wife with you.”

Grant will do a lot for SHIELD. Kill people? Sure. Go undercover? Sure. Infiltrate a secure facility with no back-up, no intel, and only one weapon (which wasn’t even fully loaded)? Sure.

Expose his wife to his abusive older brother? No. That’s the limit.

“Sir—” he starts. He’s stopped by Coulson’s raised hand.

“I know, Ward,” he says. “It’s a lot to ask. But you’re a highly trained, very lethal member of what is technically a terrorist organization. If you show up, alone, in a senator’s office after that senator made a speech condemning us…” He grimaces. “It looks like a threat.”

“And bringing Jemma along doesn’t,” Grant concludes. “Just a family reunion.”

“She does non-threatening better than you do,” Coulson says apologetically.

That’s a little insulting; Grant is a highly-trained specialist, with the best espionage scores since _Romanoff_. He can be non-threatening, if the situation calls for it. He just usually doesn’t bother.

Still, he can admit that bringing Jemma to the meeting will do a lot to make it look like less of a threat. And having her there would help him, too—her presence soothes him like nothing else does. It’ll be a lot easier to keep his calm with her there.

Even so…

“Let me put this another way,” Coulson says. “Do you really think she’s going to let you go without her?”

He huffs a laugh. It’s true; Jemma won’t be in favor of this plan at all. He’s shared things with her—things about his childhood—that no one else knows. She, above everyone, will know exactly what playing nice with Christian will cost him. And she’ll probably throw a hell of a fit if he goes to do it alone.

Actually, speaking of people who will throw fits…

“What are the chances we can keep Trip and Bobbi from finding out about this, sir?” he asks.

Coulson looks deeply pained. “Not great.”

He weighs his options and sighs.

“All right,” he says. “If you’ll handle Trip and Bobbi, I’ll take Jemma with me.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m getting the raw end of this,” Coulson muses. He makes a face. “But, fine. Deal.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, sir,” Grant says, although it really isn’t. He never wanted Jemma to meet _any_ of his family, not even Thomas. That he’s going to have to introduce her to Christian…

 _If the job was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun_ , says a voice in his head, and he quashes it at once. Garrett was a traitor and a murderer who nearly got Grant’s entire team—not to mention Jemma and _her_ entire team—killed. Grant’s not living by his words anymore.

“With your permission then, sir?” he asks.

“Yeah, get out of here,” Coulson says. “Good luck.”

“You too, sir,” he says.

They’re both going to need it.

\---

Surprisingly, he finds Jemma not in the lab, but in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, staring down at a cup of tea like it holds the secret to winning a Nobel Prize. His tension—already at high levels—rackets up a few notches at the despondent look on her face.

“Everything okay?” he asks, tone carefully casual.

She starts a little and looks up.

“Of course,” she says (really unconvincingly). “I was just…” She trails off, frowning, and searches his face. “What’s wrong?”

They’re on a time limit, and DC’s a few hours away. They can talk in the car.

“Tell you on the way,” he says. “We’re on a mission.”

“Really?” she asks, tone a little brighter. She hasn’t had much to do since returning from HYDRA (an op that he is _still_ not happy about, and reminding himself of it makes him feel a lot less sympathetic to Coulson’s plight) last week, and he knows she’s been feeling a little useless—no matter how many times he tells her she deserves the break. “What sort of mission?”

“Tell you on the way,” he repeats. He wants to get out of here before Coulson tells Trip—otherwise _he’ll_ insist on tagging along, too, and his presence will _definitely_ not be non-threatening. “We gotta go.”

“All right,” she says, setting her cup aside and standing. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“No,” he says, and takes her hand as she comes to stand next to him. “We’re not going far.”

The only thing he wants less than to see Christian is to introduce Jemma to him. But it’s necessary. Not just for the team, but for SHIELD as a whole. They have a lot of agents working solo these days, and if Christian gets his way and creates a multi-national police force to go after them…

It’ll be a slaughter.

It’s his job to prevent that. No matter what it costs him.

\---

As expected, Jemma is _not_ impressed by the mission they’ve been given. They go around in circles about it for at least an hour, and it’s frustrating, because he really doesn’t want to do this any more than she wants him to, and arguing _for_ it isn’t easy.

Still, it’s only out of concern for him. In a way, it’s nice that she’s so vehemently opposed to him facing this particular demon. It makes him feel a little less pathetic for the way his grip on his emotions begins to slip, the closer they get to DC.

In the end, he has to have her call up Christian’s little rant on her tablet in order to convince her of the importance of the mission. _That_ ends the argument pretty solidly.

“So,” he says, as she puts her tablet away. “We’ve covered where we’re going and why it’s necessary. You wanna tell me what’s up with you?”

She clears her throat and looks out her window. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jemma.”

“It’s nothing, really,” she says. “It’s just…”

“What?” he asks. He glances at her briefly, taking in her expression, then returns his eyes to the road. “Is it HYDRA?”

They’ve talked a little about her time undercover, mostly when she wakes in the middle of the night from nightmares. She’s reluctant to discuss it, however. She’s only been back a week, and everything is still too fresh—what she saw and experienced, what she had to do, is too close to speak about.

And, of course, his own feelings on the topic get in the way, too. He didn’t get a say in her assignment. He didn’t even know about it until she was already in place. She left while he was away on a mission, telling the others that everything was just too much and that she was going to stay with her parents for a while. It wasn’t until he returned and found her gone, then tried to call her at her parents’ house only to learn that she wasn’t there, that Coulson told him the truth. And by then it was too late: she was already undercover, and pulling her out would have done more harm than good.

He’s still angry about it. He can admit that. Jemma is his wife, and she knowingly and with intent put herself in harm’s way, and did it in such a way that not only could he not stop her, he couldn’t protect her. Knowing that Bobbi was with her, undercover with HYDRA security, was the only thing that kept him sane during the months she was gone. Even then, it was a close thing.

And it doesn’t help that she came so close to dying. He’s had nightmares of his own, this past week, about being outside that restaurant, listening to Raina threaten Jemma’s life, frozen by his orders and by the knowledge that even if he disobeyed them, there was no way he could get to Raina in time to stop her sending that picture.

In the last three months alone, Jemma’s died a thousand times in his dreams. That kind of thing lingers, and it makes the whole topic of HYDRA fraught with tension and bad feelings for both of them.

“No,” she says quietly. “Well, it’s a part of it, I suppose, but…” She takes a deep breath. “It’s Fitz.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What about him?”

“Things have been…strained between us,” she says. “Since I got back.” She swallows. “Because I…he needed me. And I abandoned him.”

“Hey, no,” he disagrees. He wishes this conversation weren’t taking place in a moving vehicle; he’d like to be able to look at her for this. “You didn’t _abandon_ him. We needed intel and you were the best person to get it.”

“I know,” she says, but her voice is uneven. “I know that, I just…he needed me.”

This is a delicate topic, and there’s no right way to address it. The fact is, Fitz probably did need Jemma. He’s been suffering and Jemma is his closest friend. It probably would have helped him to have her there. And Grant can’t say that he, personally, wouldn’t have preferred it if she stuck around the Playground to help Fitz.

Intellectually, though, he knows that they really did need that intel she got them. And while Fitz could have used the moral support…well, they don’t have enough personnel these days to relegate someone of Jemma’s abilities to the position of moral support.

Of course, he can’t exactly _say_ that, so…

“You’re a lot of things, but you’re not a neurologist, Jem,” he reminds her gently. “There’s nothing you could have done for Fitz that the rest of us weren’t already doing.”

“Right,” she says. She looks down at her hands. “Of course.”

He risks a glance at her and frowns. There’s something else. This isn’t about her leaving—or, at least, not entirely. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s definitely something else bothering her. Something about Fitz.

“What else?” he asks.

She’s silent for a long moment, and when he glances at her again he can tell she’s fighting tears. Shit. He struggles with himself for a few seconds, but they really don’t have time to stop. They have less than a day to convince Christian not to go through with this proposal.

Duty wars against emotion, and once again, duty wins out. Sometimes he really hates himself.

It’s a poor substitute for actually hugging her, but he takes one hand off the wheel and offers it to her. She grabs on like a lifeline.

“I make him worse,” she chokes out.

“What?” he asks. No, really. What? “No, you don’t. He’s getting better, Jem.”

“He got better while I was gone,” she says tearfully. “He got better _because_ I was gone.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “You’re his best friend. Why would—?”

“I can’t,” she interrupts. “I can’t…”

She makes a frustrated noise and brings their clasped hands up to press against her forehead. She’s still fighting tears, and his other hand tightens on the steering wheel. He’s definitely missing something, here.

Grant has never been all that close to Fitz, despite how important they both are to Jemma. He and Fitz just never clicked the way Jemma did with Trip and Bobbi.

Part of that is probably the fact that Grant is nowhere near as likeable as Jemma is, which he freely admits. But the biggest cause is likely the fact that, unlike Trip and Bobbi, who merely joke about it, Fitz is genuinely in love with Jemma, and has been for as long as Grant’s known him.

Grant doesn’t hold it against him. Jemma is eminently lovable, and it’s honestly a mystery to him that people aren’t falling at her feet wherever she goes. It’s not surprising that Fitz, who’s been more or less constantly at Jemma’s side since they were fifteen, would fall in love with her.

It made him uneasy, back when they first started dating, because he was always gone and Fitz was right there. He worried about Jemma getting sick of waiting for him and deciding that Fitz was the better choice. But he realized eventually that Jemma honestly didn’t see Fitz that way, and got over it.

For his part, Grant doesn’t have any problem with Fitz. But Fitz doesn’t feel the same, which is understandable. All things considered, Fitz has been beyond mature about the whole thing. They’re friendly, and maybe even friends. But they’re not close. So he has no idea what might be bothering him enough to get Jemma this upset.

Jemma is still trying not to cry. Damn it. He checks the clock and determines, again, that they really don’t have the time to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just—I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “We don’t have to talk about this now.” He squeezes her hand. “It can wait. Whenever you’re ready.”

“And if I’m never ready?” she asks, miserably.

He shrugs, projecting nonchalance—although, honestly, he’s more than a little concerned by whatever’s got her this upset. But pushing won’t help at all, especially when she’s in this state. They need to set this aside, at least for the moment. They can come back to it when they’re both a little calmer.

“Then we don’t have to talk about it ever,” he says. He glances at her, judging her mood, and decides a joke is in order. “We don’t have to talk at all. Smoke signals are pretty effective. And fun.”

She laughs—a little tearily, true, but he’ll take it.

“You just want the excuse to set another fire,” she accuses. “I heard about what happened in Moscow while I was gone.”

“Hey, that was all Trip,” he denies. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Funny,” she says. “He said the same about you.”

“And you believe him?” he asks, faking offense. “Over your own husband?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Have you forgotten the vows we swore?”

“Love, honor, death do us part,” she counts off on the fingers of her free hand. “I don’t recall _believing blatant lies_ being on the list.”

“Blatant?” he echoes.

“Incredibly so,” she confirms. “Bobbi said—”

“Bobbi wasn’t even there!” he protests.

“And yet, somehow, her account is _still_ more believable than yours,” she muses. “That should really tell you something, shouldn’t it?”

They pass the rest of the drive with playful bickering, and by the time they finally reach the Russell Senate Office Building, where Christian keeps his office, they’re both in much better moods. Of course, the sight of the building is enough to bring almost all of the tension back, but it was nice while it lasted.

Grant parks the car, but neither of them makes a move to get out. They just sit there, staring at the building.

“How are you planning to get in to see him?” Jemma asks eventually. “I’m assuming you haven’t made an appointment.”

“No,” he agrees. “We can’t risk being turned away. So we’re gonna have to break in.”

She closes her eyes. “I’m imagining the response that a British citizen being caught breaking into the office of a United States’ senator will result in.” She winces. “It is…not pretty.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” he agrees, and pats her thigh. “But you don’t have to worry about it, because we’re not gonna get caught.”

“Really?” she asks dryly. “I’m not doubting your skills, darling, but…”

“But nothing,” he says. He’s actually broken into an office in the Russell building before, which means he has the layout memorized and some (admittedly out-of-date) knowledge about the guard postings. “It’ll be a piece of cake. Just follow my lead.”

“We’ll have to get out of the car, first,” she points out gently.

“Yeah,” he says. He sighs.

“I’m sorry that we have to do this,” Jemma says quietly. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “I’m right here with you.”

“I know,” he says, equally quiet. “Thanks.”

He raises their clasped hands to kiss the back of hers, then lets go.

“All right,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get this over with."

\---

They easily make it to Christian’s office unnoticed. Security is actually pretty sloppy, and he makes a mental note to mention it to Coulson. If HYDRA decides that its next move should be to fake a SHIELD attack on the Senate, they don’t want to make it too easy on them.

Christian isn’t in his office. Grant picks the lock in seconds and ushers Jemma in, then follows, shutting the door behind him. Then he just stands there, looking around, taking in the room. It’s very…Christian. He’s never given much thought to what his older brother’s office might look like, but if he had? He would’ve pictured almost this exact room.

Jemma squeezes his arm once, then moves away, giving him a moment to collect himself. She wanders to the bookcase behind Christian’s desk and examines the photographs on display. Then, frowning slightly, she picks one up off the lowest shelf.

“You have a niece and nephew?” she asks, studying the picture.

“Niece and _nephews_ ,” he corrects, approaching the desk and indicating the picture of Christian’s youngest son, which is on a higher shelf. “Yeah.”

“You’ve never mentioned them,” she says. Her words would sound accusing, if not for the tone, which is soft with sympathetic understanding. “Do you ever see or speak to them?”

“Seen them a couple times,” he says, perching on the edge of the desk and crossing his arms. “But I’ve never spoken to them. Not sure they even know I exist.”

Jemma pauses in her perusal of the picture and turns to look at him, puzzled.

“I’ve, uh, checked up on them a couple times,” he admits uncomfortably. “From a distance. Just to make sure…”

“That he doesn’t treat them the way he treated you,” she completes, quietly, when he falters. “And he doesn’t?”

“Nope,” he says. “Perfect father.”

She sets the picture down and crosses to a bookcase on the far wall, which holds a copy of Christian and Anna’s wedding portrait. She frowns a little as she contemplates it.

“And husband?”

“Not so much,” he says. “He’s cheating on her.” He stands and joins her in front of the portrait. “Never hurts her, though. Guess he grew out of that.”

Bitterness burns in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to see Christian and he sure as hell doesn’t want to introduce Jemma to him. He definitely doesn’t want to make any kind of deal with him. He has the sudden urge to run—to just turn around and leave, go back to the Playground and tell Coulson that Christian wasn’t willing to make a deal.

But he can’t. This is his duty.

Jemma takes his hand. “I’m proud of you.”

He glances down at her, startled. “What?”

“I’m proud of you,” she repeats. “I don’t say it often enough, because I know you don’t like to think about it, but I’m proud of you. Your family was terrible, and you could have let it twist you. Instead, you became an amazing man in spite of them.”

“Jemma—”

“And don’t start with your nonsense about not being a good man,” she orders. “Because you _are_ , no matter what you think.”

He’s really not. But it means a lot to him that she’s so convinced he is.

“Trust me,” she adds, and smiles. “I’m a doctor.”

He rolls his eyes, because that joke got old approximately two weeks into their relationship.

“Okay, Doctor,” he says. “If you’re done nosing around my brother’s office, what do you say we have a seat? There’s no telling how long we’ll be waiting.”

“I was not _nosing_ ,” she informs him, even as she tugs him towards the sofa on the other side of the room. “I was merely curious. I’ve never been in a senator’s office before. It’s not nearly so blatantly evil as I was expecting.”

“No?” he asks dryly. She sits in the corner of the sofa, and he perches on the arm next to her, unable to relax enough to actually sit. “What did you expect to find? A twelve-step plan for world domination?”

“Well, I’m not sure, really,” she says, leaning against him. “But we had black lab coats in HYDRA, you know.”

He looks down at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Afraid not,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “They were in case we forgot that we were the bad guys, I suppose. I must say, I felt more than a little ridiculous.”

“I’ll bet,” he mutters. But he doesn’t want to think about Jemma in HYDRA any more than he wants to think about why they’re here. Time for a subject change. “When was the last time you were in DC? Was it for that conference…?”

“No, actually,” she says. “We were here in…February, I believe?” She pauses, considering, then nods. “Yes, February. Coulson and May had meetings, and Fitz was ill, so Skye and I went sight-seeing. It was a lot of fun.”

He notes the absence of the sixth member of her team from her count, but doesn’t mention it. Wright is still a sore subject—and not just for the original team. No one likes a traitor, and a traitor that came so close to crossing everyone off…

Grant isn’t allowed in the Vault, and he’s not the only one. Trip and Bobbi have both been banned, as well—presumably because Coulson’s worried that they’ll seek vengeance on Grant’s behalf. Wright nearly killed Jemma, and that’s not something that can go without retribution.

Still, Wright’s stuck in a tiny cell with nothing to do but stare at the walls. That’s punishment enough, for now.

“Yeah?” he asks, putting thoughts of Wright aside. “And how long did you keep Skye in the Botanic Garden? Did she beg for mercy?”

She hits his leg. “No, she did _not_. It was only two hours.”

“ _Only_?” he asks.

“Considering the fact that I spent _all morning_ being dragged around various national landmarks,” she says. “I think two hours was more than reasonable.”

They’re in the middle of a minor debate about just what constitutes _reasonable_ when it comes to looking at plants and buildings when Grant picks up on a sound in the hallway. He presses a hand to Jemma’s shoulder to silence her, and, when she stops talking, hears the scrape of a key in the lock.

Christian’s back.

His heart doesn’t race, exactly, but it does speed up. He feels vaguely sick. It’s been six years since he last spoke to Christian, and that’s not nearly long enough. He _really_ doesn’t want to do this. He wants to get out of here. There’s a window right there, and they’re not _that_ high up. He could scale the building, easy, and be gone before Christian ever knows he was here.

Jemma places her hand over his, which is still resting on her shoulder, and squeezes once, firmly. It draws him out of his rising panic, and he forcibly centers himself.

He’s not a kid anymore. He’s a specialist, one of SHIELD’s best—and that was _before_ SHIELD was reduced to less than a hundred operatives. He’s been compared to Natasha Romanoff, for fuck’s sake. He’s got nothing to fear from Christian. Not anymore.

He squeezes Jemma’s shoulder, then lets go and stands as the door swings open.

Show time.

Christian doesn’t notice them, at first. He goes straight to his desk, sets down the folder he’s carrying, and reaches for his laptop. It’s then that his eyes catch on Grant, and he freezes.

“Grant?”

“Christian,” he says. He slips his hands into his pockets and approaches the desk. “Long time no see.”

“Six years,” Christian says, laughing in disbelief. “It’s good to see you.”

He comes around the desk, and Grant reluctantly pulls his hands out of his pockets to accept the offered handshake. At least he didn’t go for a hug; he’s not sure he would’ve been able to resist the urge to react with violence.

“Yeah,” he lies. “You, too.”

Christian’s eyes go to Jemma, who’s still sitting on the sofa, and then back to Grant.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

It’s best to start by playing nice, before getting to the real purpose of the visit, so he motions for Jemma to join them.

“For one thing,” he says, as she stands and crosses the room. “I thought it was about time Jemma met my family. Jemma, this is my brother, Christian. Christian, my wife, Jemma.”

Christian pauses in the act of extending a hand to Jemma.

“Wife?” he echoes, surprised. “When did _that_ happen?”

“It was four years last month,” Jemma answers. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to meet.”

Her tone is perfectly pleasant, and Grant has to admit that her time in HYDRA did a lot for her skills in deception. He’s pretty sure his brother misses the unspoken addition of _since I have some experimental drugs in need of a test subject_.

He might be projecting, there, but he doesn’t think so. Jemma does get endearingly protective of him—no one’s forgotten the thing with the Austrian base commander.

“So am I,” Christian says, shaking off his surprise and offering his hand properly. “Welcome to the family, Jemma.”

“Thank you,” she says. As she shakes Christian’s hand, her other hand slips into Grant’s. Probably to keep him from doing anything rash, because hearing Christian _welcome her_ to the _family_ , as if a single member of the nightmare he came from is going to get anywhere near her after this…

He shuts it down. If all goes well (well being a relative term, in this case), Jemma likely _will_ be exposed to his entire family. Repeatedly.

It’s far from a pleasant thought.

“Grant, married,” Christian muses. He shakes his head and chuckles. “It’s hard to believe, but that’s all of us, then.” He looks at Grant. “You know Thomas got married last year.”

“I know,” he says. “I got the invitation.”

Three months late, he doesn’t add. He, Bobbi, and Trip were undercover with some drug runners in Eastern Europe when the invitation came. Of course, they wrapped up the op in plenty of time for him to attend the wedding, but he never gave any serious thought to going.

Thomas is the member of his family that he’s closest to, but that’s really not saying much.

Christian frowns. “I didn’t realize he had your address.”

“PO Box,” he corrects. “Just in case of emergencies, mostly.”

“I see,” Christian says.

His frown deepens. Grant can _see_ him considering angles, trying to determine the best way to play this, and it turns his stomach. He knows he does the same thing. Having _anything_ in common with Christian, especially this…

He puts it aside. He has a job to do.

“You didn’t show up out of the blue, after six years, to introduce me to your wife,” Christian says. “What are you _really_ doing here? And, for that matter, how did you get in?”

“Your security’s sloppy,” he shrugs. “Getting in wasn’t hard. You should really check on that. As for why I’m here…” He squeezes Jemma’s hand once, then lets go in favor of bracing himself against the back of one of the visitor’s chairs. No matter how this conversation goes, it’s sure to piss him off, and he doesn’t want to risk accidentally hurting her. Better to break a chair than his wife’s hand. “Just wanted to clear the air.”

“Clear the air?” Christian echoes doubtfully.

“About what happened this morning,” he specifies. “At the UN.”

“You’re with SHIELD,” Christian says. His tone is one of realization, but it rings slightly false. He already knew.

“Yeah,” he says. “Unlike the people that attacked the UN. That was HYDRA.”

“You’re not here to clear the air,” Christian says, all wounded disappointment. Grant itches with the urge to hit him. “You want something. Coming here with this woman, calling her your wife—it’s just another one of your _games_ , because you have nothing to offer me in return.”

“One out of four,” he says lightly. “You’re not up to your usual standards, Christian.” He leans forward as Christian turns and walks to the window. “I do want something, you’re right about that. But Jemma _is_ my wife, I _do_ have something to offer, and _I’m_ not the one who plays games. You are.”

“Am I?” Christian asks, turning back to face him.

“Yeah,” Grant says. “You are. HYDRA isn’t SHIELD, not anymore. And I bet Talbot told you the same thing. But it’s complicated, and you don’t want complicated. You want a nice, simple enemy to take a tough stance against.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” Christian says. “So why are you here? To threaten me into defending SHIELD and condemning HYDRA? Because I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not here to threaten you, Christian.” He flexes his hands on the back of the chair, because honestly, he would _much_ rather be threatening than making a deal. “I mean, I could. I _could_ point out that if you condemn SHIELD as a terrorist organization and then it comes out that your own brother is a SHIELD agent, it wouldn’t end too well for you.”

“That sounds like a threat to me,” Christian observes. His tone is mild, but Grant can read the anger underneath it. He’s struck a nerve.

That’s something, at least.

“It’s not,” he promises. “It _could_ be, but it’s not.” He shrugs. “It would hurt you, sure. But it still leaves SHIELD as the bad guy, and that’s not what we want.”

“If you’ve got an offer, make it,” Christian says. “If not, get out. Don’t waste my time with _games_.”

He ignores the reference to games. Christian will never admit just how much of a manipulator he is.

Grant’s accepted it about himself, that he learned manipulation from Christian and his parents, and spent his whole life building on it. It’s part of what makes him so good at his job. He hates it, but he can admit it.

Just not to Christian. So he ignores the mention and gets to the point.

“Walk it back,” he says. “Say that the real enemy is HYDRA. Tell the public that HYDRA is trying to _trick_ them, to blame SHIELD and turn them against us.”

Christian turns back to the window, but Grant can tell he’s listening.

“Nothing pisses the American people off like knowing that someone is trying to play them,” he adds. “You can play the hero—be the… _truth seeker_ who pulls the curtain back and shows everyone who the _real_ enemy is.”

“Clearing SHIELD’s name in the process,” Christian concludes. “And in return?”

He’s ready to listen. It’s time for Grant to make his offer—but, somehow, he can’t open his mouth. If he makes this offer, he can’t take it back. He’ll be stuck with it, trapped into doing something he’s spent the last sixteen years avoiding: playing nice with his family.

He’s never been a coward, but…

On the way here, he asked Jemma to say as little as possible while negotiations were ongoing. Not because he didn’t think she could help, but because he honestly wasn’t sure whether he would be able to control himself if Christian spoke a single harsh word to her. He knows she wasn’t happy about it, but she agreed.

He knows he was right to ask her, because being here is even harder than he anticipated, and there’s no _way_ he’ll keep his temper if Christian turns his attitude towards Jemma. At the same time, though, he regrets it. Having her stand quietly by—seen, but not heard, the way he and his brothers were expected to be when they were kids—isn’t helping him with what he has to do.

He never wanted to expose her to this part of his life.

As though reading his mind, she reaches out and covers his hand—still gripping the back of the chair—with her own. He looks at her, and she gives him an encouraging smile. And that she can still smile like that, full of honest faith in him, after spending _months_ undercover in HYDRA…after seeing first-hand the kind of things he’s been called upon to do over the course of his career…

He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to do this, but it’s necessary. It kills him to make the offer for himself, and it’s even worse that he has to bring Jemma into it, but he doesn’t have a choice. Duty requires sacrifice. He learned that a long time ago.

“You’ve been getting questions,” he says. “About me.”

Christian turns to look at him.

“Not just you,” Grant amends. “Our parents do, too.” He smiles a little, humorlessly. “I saw that article in the _Herald_ a few months ago. _The Forgotten Ward_. It doesn’t look good when you dodge those questions.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Christian agrees. “What are you offering? To come back into the fold? Because endorsing SHIELD, only to present my SHIELD agent brother a few minutes later…that doesn’t look good, either.”

“I _am_ offering to come back,” he confirms—very reluctantly. “But you won’t be telling anyone I’m SHIELD.”

“And when they ask where you’ve been all these years?”

“You give them my cover,” he says.

Christian rolls his eyes. “Your _cover_?”

Grant always knew there was a possibility that the day might come when he needed to take advantage of the power his family wields. He’s spent _years_ building a cover, just in case. It’s built entirely on his own connections, totally separate from SHIELD. Which means that it wasn’t burned when HYDRA came out of the shadows.

(Unfortunately.)

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He tugs out the military ID, hidden behind a few (fake) credit cards, and tosses it onto Christian’s desk.

“Captain Grant Ward,” he says. “United States Army, retired.”

Christian picks the ID up. “The Army?”

“Special Forces,” he says. “To be precise.” He reaches out and plucks the ID from his brother’s hand. “Of course, I retired last year. To be closer to my wife, you understand. Now I’m a private contractor.” He slips the ID back into his wallet, then holds up another. “Rockford, Inc. You may have heard of it.”

“That’s one of our biggest defense contractors,” Christian says, disbelieving. “You can’t honestly think anyone will buy it. Reporters dig, you know that. And when they do—”

“It’ll hold,” he interrupts. “Rockwell, boot camp, OCS…you can call up my old battalion commander and he’ll tell you all about the time I disobeyed orders and saved my men from certain death. It’ll hold,” he repeats. “They can dig all they like. The cover’s solid. Captain Grant Ward is an American hero.”

He thinks he manages to keep the disgust at the idea out of his voice, but maybe not, because Jemma leans against him slightly, pressing her arm against his in a subtle show of support. It eases the knot in his chest, but only a little.

There’s nothing about this he doesn’t hate.

“And the reason for the secrecy?” Christian asks. “If you were such a _hero_ , why would we hide it?”

“I distanced myself from the family,” he says. “Didn’t want special treatment for being a Ward. All those questions you’ve refused to answer over the years…you were just respecting my wishes.”

“Well, wasn’t that noble of you,” Christian muses.

Grant can tell his mind is racing—can practically _see_ the plans he’s building, the spin he’s preparing. The prodigal Ward, returning not in shame, but as a war hero. And in an election year?

He won’t be able to resist.

“You made a name for yourself,” Christian says. “You stayed away from the family, built your own reputation with no help from us, and now…it’s time to come home.”

“Makes for a hell of a story,” Grant agrees.

“Yes,” Christian murmurs. “Yes, it does.” He looks at Jemma. “And you? You don’t strike me as the defense contractor type.”

Jemma looks at Grant, a silent ‘ _are you going to hit him if I answer?_ ’ in her eyes. It’s impressive how she manages to convey sympathy, understanding, and annoyed impatience in a single look. Despite himself, it makes him smile. He nods.

“No,” she says, looking back to Christian. “I’m not a contractor. I’m a scientist.” She reaches into her purse for her wallet, pulls out her own ID. “Specifically, a biochemist. I work for Tempest Industries.”

He built a cover for Jemma, too, of course—although hers is actually mostly legitimate. Even while working for SHIELD, she did a lot of publishing. Hers is a well-known name, in academic circles, and her cover is based mostly in truth. It’s just the packaging (namely, Tempest Industries) that’s false.

“And I presume _that_ will hold up, too?” Christian asks.

“It will,” Jemma confirms.

There’s a long moment of silence. It’s obvious (at least to Grant) that Christian is weighing his options, considering the benefits each available course of action offers.

Part of him honestly hopes that Christian will tell them to get lost.

If Christian refuses the deal, then tomorrow he’ll propose legislation that will declare open season on SHIELD agents. _Everyone_ will be at risk—including and especially the solo operatives they’ve got overseas.

But if he accepts it…Grant will be forced to see him again. Not only him, but their parents, too. He’ll be forced to play nice and smile for the cameras and drag Jemma along with him, into a nightmare he left behind more than a decade ago.

Either way, he can’t win.

“If I agree to this,” Christian says eventually. “I’ll need more than just a cover story. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” he agrees. “State functions, photo ops, interviews…” He grimaces. “I can’t make them all. I have a job to do. But we can negotiate attendance.”

There’s the added misfortune that it’s going to effectively burn him, at least in the United States. Taking undercover ops after having his picture plastered all over Massachusetts would be a stupid risk. He’ll still probably be able to pull ops overseas, but close to home? He’ll be stuck as himself.

Even worse, he’ll be stuck as a version of himself that gets along (or at least pretends to) with his family.

“For both of you,” Christian specifies, nodding at Jemma.

“For both of us,” Grant agrees, resigned. He finally lets go of the chair and straightens. “So. Do we have a deal?”

Christian gives him a long, searching stare, then grins.

“We have a deal,” he says. “I’ll condemn HYDRA in my speech tomorrow, and you come home to play prodigal war hero.”

He extends his hand. Grant swallows around the lump in his throat and accepts it. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face pleasant as they shake hands. He feels like he’s just made a deal with the devil.

And in a way, he really has.

Once he lets go of Grant’s hand, Christian grins again and checks his watch.

“It’s a little early for dinner,” he says. “But I know a _great_ place to get some coffee while we work out the details.”

Somewhere they can be photographed together, he doesn’t say. A place where the political version of paparazzi can see them together and spread the word that the missing Ward is not only back, but on friendly terms with his older brother.

“Sounds good,” he lies. He takes Jemma’s hand when she offers it, drawing on her for calm. It’s not fair of him, not really, but the only way he’s going to make it through the rest of this day is by leaning on her. “Lead the way.”

\---

Coffee turns into dinner, of course, in an equally public location. In the end, they spend hours with Christian—hours in which Grant has to smile and laugh and reminisce over a childhood that was nowhere near as pleasant as Christian makes it sound. He keeps a tight grip on his emotions the entire time, shuts them down any time they start to threaten his control, and somehow manages not to snap whenever Christian so much as looks at Jemma. He even manages to maintain his composure while making plans to accompany Christian to Massachusetts for a visit with their parents.

Over the course of his career, Grant has had dinner with drug runners, weapons dealers, human traffickers, and worse. He’s dealt with the very dregs of humanity—sometimes alone, sometimes with Trip and Bobbi at his side.

For sheer difficulty in keeping control—of his emotions and his temper both—all of those encounters _combined_ can’t match this single meal with Christian.

Somehow, though, he makes it through, and finally— _finally_ —it’s time to say their goodbyes. Jemma’s phone rings just as they’re leaving the restaurant, and she pulls it out of her purse with an apologetic smile.

“I have to take this,” she says, checking the screen. She smiles—convincingly sincerely—at Christian. “It was nice meeting you, Christian.”

“You too, Jemma,” Christian says. His smile is even more sincere than hers. “Take care of yourself—and this one here.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “Until next week, then.” She squeezes Grant’s arm. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Be there in a minute,” he says.

She answers her phone as she walks away. He catches the word ‘sir’ and tenses a little. If Coulson’s calling personally…that’s probably not a good sign.

“It was good to see you, brother,” Christian says, drawing his attention back. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

He’d like to tell him to go fuck himself, but—for probably the twentieth time in the last hour—bites it back. He has to play nice. Even though they both know that Grant has hated every second of this, Christian is intent on pretending that everything is fine. He has to go along with it.

“Me, too,” he says. He smiles. “We’ll see you at that fundraiser next week.”

“I’ve got your email,” Christian agrees. “I’ll have my secretary send along the invitation as soon as possible.”

“Great,” he says.

Christian offers his hand, and Grant takes it. He’s not surprised that Christian uses it to draw him into a hug. He even manages not to tense up too badly as he returns it.

The worst part of this whole charade has been how close it is to what he wished so hard for when he was a kid—for an older brother who was proud of him, who _liked_ him and was _nice_ to him, instead of tormenting him. It’s everything he ever wanted, twenty years too late and far too obviously fake.

He won’t call it torture, because he’s _been_ tortured (more than once), and there’s a difference. But this comes uncomfortably close.

“I’ll see you around, Grant,” Christian says, drawing back.

“Yeah,” Grant says. “Count on it.”

He stands and watches as Christian walks away, flanked by his bodyguards. He can’t even enjoy it, because he knows this won’t be the last he sees of his brother. Far from it, in fact.

And next week will be even worse, because he’ll have to see his parents, too.

He takes a deep breath and boxes all of that up. He has a whole week before he has to worry about his family again, and the best way to get through it is to not think about them at all. It’s the _only_ way to get through it, really. There’s no way he can keep his sanity if he spends all week obsessing over what he has to do.

Once he’s sure he’s got a lid on all of his family-related issues, he turns and heads for the parking lot.

Some of the tension in his spine leaves him as he walks, but it comes right back when he reaches the car. Or, more accurately, when he sees the look on Jemma’s face. She’s leaning against the side of the car like it’s the only thing holding her up, and there’s grief written all over her.

“What happened?” he asks.

“An ambush,” she answers. “Bobbi, May, and Hunter thought Scarlotti was going after Beckers, but it was a trap. Beckers is HYDRA. His pro-SHEILD stance was just a set-up.”

Bobbi, May, and Hunter must have made it out okay. If they hadn’t, she would have led with it, rather than an explanation of the circumstances. But the look on her face makes it obvious that _someone_ is dead.

“How many did we lose?”

She swallows. “Six.”

He takes a deep breath. Despite achieving their main objective, it’s hard to consider anything that happened today a victory.

But there’s nothing they can do about it now. All they can do is live with it.

“Come on,” he says, and opens the passenger door for her. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
